


First We Run

by curds_and_wheyface



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF, Thor (Movies) RPF
Genre: Enemies to Friends, First Times, M/M, Rivalry, Sexual Tension, Summer Camp AU, both seventeen, boys being dumb
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-23 13:35:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4878829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curds_and_wheyface/pseuds/curds_and_wheyface
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>August has finally rolled around, and with The Spice Girls taking over every electronic device in Tom’s household and his mum and dad’s divorce getting ugly, Tom is ecstatic to be heading back for his final year at Cooper’s Rock Summer Camp.</p><p>But with the temperature hitting averages of 70 sweltering degrees and old scores to be settled, camp might not be the best place to escape the drama.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [umakoo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/umakoo/gifts).



> Summer camp AU, for my dearest [umakoo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/umakoo) on her birthday. Thanks for everything! <3

The familiar sign appears over the top of the trees, carved into a neat arch of thick wood, and Tom settles back into the seat of the cab and lets out a breath.

"Aren't you too old for this, kid?" the driver asks as they pass a queue of little boys waiting to board the bus that will take them home. With bruised knees and muddy shoes, they jostle and fuss at each other, showing off their medals and certificates with unabashed pride.

Tom smiles, wishing he'd been here when he was that age. He'd joined at thirteen, the same summer that his family had packed up and relocated from the windy, concrete streets of Westminster to the dewy forests of rural Virginia.

"It's my last year," he says as they drive further in, trying to spy his friends through the murky back windows of the cab. "But honestly, I don't think anyone is ever too old for summer camp."

-

The older campers are gathering just inside; duffel bags and suitcases being yanked around in the powdery mud, camp leaders with clipboards trying to wrangle everyone into some semblance of order. As Tom opens his door the chorus of voices grows louder still, and he's hit by the palpable wave of excitement that always settles over the campers on arrival day.

He pays the driver, including a healthy tip as instructed by his mum, and then stands with his duffel at his feet as the cab backs away and disappears down the dirt road that brought them here. The bus full of boys follows behind the cab, leaving the camp to the older kids, ages fifteen to seventeen, who always have it for the final three weeks of summer.

Tom recognises several slightly younger boys from last year, already grouped into their old gang and throwing a baseball to and fro. They pause to wave as he passes with his duffel hefted over his shoulder and he offers them a nod and a smile.

Frank, the Head Leader of Coopers Rock Summer Camp, is in the middle of the clearing welcoming everyone back. He's seventy years old if he's a day, and yet Tom can't remember him ever sitting out of activities or retiring early to bed.

He tips his head to the side as Tom approaches, offering him a lopsided smile. "There's my favourite English camper."

Tom scoffs fondly. "Frank, I'm your only English camper."

With worn shorts and thick-lensed glasses that make his eyes look too big for his face, Frank could easily become a target for mockery amongst the campers, but for many of the boys he's more like an eccentric grandfather-figure than simply a camp leader.

As Tom stops at his side and lets the duffel drop with a heavy thud at his feet, he's pulled into sideways hug.

Tom accepts the affection gladly, joining Frank in looking out at the relative chaos of sixty teenage boys trying to find their friends without losing their luggage.

"Any newcomers this year?"

Frank's shrug jostles him. "Two or three. I don't think many fifteen year olds want to join a summer camp these days."

There's a sombre note in his voice, as if he's thinking of years gone by. Tom isn't sure how many years Frank has lead the camp for, but he knows it's been in his family for decades.

"They don't know what they're missing," he says with genuine cheer, elbowing Frank lightly in the ribs.

Frank nods, "I agree. Camp is a valuable, character-building experi-"

He breaks off, squinting over at the old oak tree that towers over the registration building.

"Hey!" he suddenly squawks, letting go of Tom without ceremony and marching in the direction of the boy attempting to shuffle up the wide bark. "Get down from there immediately!"

Huffing out a laugh, Tom hauls his bag over his shoulder again and scans the area for any of his friends.

He was assigned Camp Cobalt on his arrival five years ago, adorned with a blue armband and welcomed into the team, and every year since he's shared a cabin with the same boys. Their rivals are Camp Odinite - their armband green - and each year the competition to earn privileges and win the overall Camp Victory has grown more and more fierce.

There are Odinites everywhere, not a blue armband in sight, so Tom aims for the registration building to see if his friends are gathered inside.

"Your Camp Privilege friends went that way, Tommyboy," a smug voice calls from behind him, and when Tom turns he's unsurprised to find _Chris Hemsworth_ , Odinites' boy-wonder, just a few feet away and flashing his teeth in a wide grin.

Tom feels his stomach clench in irritation. Their rivalry is notorious, and goes beyond simple camp loyalties. At every turn Chris will make it his mission to beat not just Cobalt but to beat Tom, going as far as sabotage and obstruction in order to ensure his win.

If he were a superhero from a comic book then Chris would undoubtedly be his arch nemesis.

"Oh, wonderful," he calls back, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "I was worried you might not come back this year."

Chris laughs and Tom grits his teeth. His hate for Chris burns like a fire in his belly, but the absolute worst of it is that, physically, he's almost godlike. He's all bronzed skin and stupid blonde hair, his weirdly-small eyes the same bright blue as the sky. At fourteen when Tom had realised he was gay it hadn't been Brad Pitt or Johnny Depp that his brain had strayed to for wank-inspiration, but Chris.

He's cut his hair since last year; instead of falling in streaky blonde waves around his face like a lion's mane it's now short and tidy which, coupled with his physical size, leaves him looking older and more refined than the other boys in his team.

"As if I'd miss out on my last chance to beat you, Tom," he smirks, holding his arms above his head. "No, I'm afraid your final memory of me will be me holding the Victory Cup above my head...probably through the blur of your tears."

And then, to Tom's horror, he _winks_.

"Idiot," Tom mutters, more flustered than he'd ever admit, but before he's forced to come up with an adequate response Frank saves the day.

"Hiddleston, Hemsworth," he calls, pointing over the hill. "All final year campers are assembling on the north side. Bring your bags."

-

As he emerges from over the hill and the rest of the camp comes into view Tom stops in his tracks. Towards the tree line, right across the field, stands a row of ten brand new cabins, much smaller than the two large house-cabins that generally sleep Camp Cobalt and Camp Odinite.

At the bottom of the hill Tom spies the rest of Camp Cobalt looking as confused as he feels.

"Well, those are new," he says as he reaches them, dropping his bags by his feet.

Chris heads straight for his Camp Odinite friends, letting out an obnoxious roar as he throws himself into the circle they've formed. Tom watches out of the corner of his eye as they greet each other with shaken hands and knocked shoulders, laughing and smiling.

"Seems Camp _Odious_ are too stupid to be suspicious."

He feels one of his teammates slap him on the back. "It's day one, Cambridge, can you ease up on the big words at least for twenty-four hours?"

The laughter of his teammates is good natured, but still Tom feels himself go a little pink, and when he glances over he finds Chris looking at him.

"So, what's going on?" one of the Odinite boys eventually calls out, to a chorus of agreeable sounds from everyone else.

Frank sweeps his hand in a flourish, indicating the new cabins. "These," he says dramatically, "are the new Final Year cabins. No longer will the senior campers partake in the same activities and competitions as the fifteen and sixteen year olds."

Everyone begins to shift, looking between their groups in curious confusion. Tom aims his frown at his friend Zack, who offers a shrug in return.

"The cabins house two people each, and all activities will be undertaken in pairs. This year you're not just competing for your house to win the Victory Cup, you're competing for your pair to win."

Subtly, Tom raises a brow at Zack.

"You and me?" he mouths, getting a nod in return.

Glancing over again he sees Chris bump fists with another Odinite, and appraises them both with a competitive eye. Zack is short compared to Tom but he's athletic, and Tom suspects between them they can still beat Chris and his goon for the Cup.

"One other thing," Frank says, and this time he leaves such a pause that Tom is sure that whatever he says next is going to be big.

It hits him right before Frank opens his mouth.

"The pairs will be made up of one Odinite and one Cobalt."

-

"This is bullshit," Zack growls, shaking his head. "They've spent the last decade of our lives teaching us about loyalty to our team and now they expect us to compete against each other?"

Tom nods, feeling worry begin to settle in his stomach. "And with a rival."

They continue to gripe and complain as Frank flips the sheet on his clipboard, running his finger along the names. Still looking smug, he begins to reel off names in sets of two, and pairs of campers from rival teams step up and stand beside each other.

Zack is called up to pair with the only other camper who could possibly rival Chris in terms of size, and Tom doesn't miss the way he nods to himself as he goes, clearly considering the idea that they might win.

"Don't bank on it," Tom says, and Zack grins over his shoulder.

Frank moves his pen down the page and follows it with his eyes, brows drawn in concentration. "Tom H, you're sharing with..."

Tom shakes his head. "No, no, no," he murmurs under his breath, squeezing his fist so tightly his nails cut into the meat of his palm. He already knows what Frank is about to say, and suddenly his final camp experience seems like it's going to be grim.

"Chris Hemsworth."

Nervous snickers sound out from the rest of the group and Chris lets out a single, stunned bark of laughter, bringing his gargantuan hands together once in a clap that echoes around the clearing. Tom stares over at him, wide-eyed and wondering what could possibly be funny about this.

"You can't be serious, Frank," Chris smiles like he thinks it's a joke but when he gets no response other than a shrug his smile begins to waver. He meets Tom's eyes, brow creased deeply with his frown, and then he snaps his gaze back to Frank. After another stunned moment he waves a hand in Tom's general direction. "This is-. You can't be-. We can't work together."

For a moment Tom thinks that Frank looks sad, like a parent whose children don't get along, but as quickly as the look had come over him it shifts into a small, commiserative smile. "Looks like you're going to have to."

And with that he continues to pair up the others, staunchly ignoring Chris's quiet outrage and the fact that neither of them have moved.

"Go," one of the Cobalts named Will says, pushing Tom in Chris's direction with his shoulder. He's laughing, as are a few of the others, and the betrayal of it urges Tom to move towards the rest of the lined-up pairs.

Moving past Chris at a march he grits out, "Come on then."

He's surprised when he hears footsteps behind him, dragging and reluctant but there all the same, and when he reaches the others Chris steps into place beside him. In four years the only reason they've had to stand side-by-side is at the starting line of the big race, shoving and elbowing at each other as they wait for the starting gun; it feels unnatural to brush shoulders with Chris in silence, and Chris must feel it too because he shifts away just an inch.

Tom catches Frank's brief look at them and can't help but wonder what the man is thinking. The notion that teaming them up might force them to reconsider their rivalry is laughable at best and downright dangerous at worst. Frank will be lucky if they haven't murdered each other by the end of camp.

"This is stupid," Chris murmurs, and for the first time in years Tom agrees with him.

Contrary to how it may seem, it wasn't hate at first sight. Tom had even thought for a little while that they were going to be friends. Both thirteen and new to camp - new to America - they had gravitated towards each other during registration. Chris had been tall for his age and bronzed by the sun, Tom pale and shorter by half a foot, but as the only new kids that year they had found common ground. Tom had taken comfort in how similarly clueless Chris was, and had even been disappointed when they were placed into different teams, but Chris's real nature had become apparent fairly quickly when he'd tripped Tom a few feet from the finishing line of the first race.

Any friendship they may have struck up had been lost in that moment, irrevocably so.

Camp Odinite had celebrated their new member with enthusiasm while Tom had sat nursing his grazed knee, scowling over at the wooden leader board as Odinite's first point was hung up for all to see. After that he'd made it his personal mission to best Chris in any area that he could, and while their physical differences meant that Chris won a lot of the more athletic tasks, Tom had revelled in _humiliating_ his rival in any activities that required logic or common sense.

And so it went on, year after year. Their rivalry had become the stuff of legend; notorious amongst campers of all ages and the bane of Frank's existence, more and more heated with each visit to Coopers Rock. By their third year, at fifteen years old, Tom had developed a form perfect for endurance running, jogging year-round to prepare himself, but still he'd struggled to beat Chris at the opening sprint-race.

By sixteen he'd finally mastered it, winning by nearly six seconds, but Chris was competitive to the core and their rivalry had only gotten nastier as a result of Tom overcoming him. Both camps had taken to pranks and sabotage, more and more elaborate as the weeks went on, and when Cobalt's final prank had resulted in significant damage to the Odinite cabin the leader board had been stripped of all points and the victory cup had been locked away without a winning team.

Tom had spent the weeks afterwards worried that he wouldn't be allowed back for his final year, but several phone calls between his mother and Frank had reassured him that there was always a place at Coopers Rock for him. 

He should've known there was a catch.

"He's punishing us," he says, quiet enough that only Chris can hear.

Chris sighs, watching as the final campers pair up and come to stand in line. "Yeah, no shit."

Now, at seventeen, they're so close in height that it's hard to tell which of them has that final inch on the other; gone are the days when Tom had to endure being looked down upon by his rival. Still, Chris is broad where Tom is lean and the difference in their physicality is stark.

"At least we might actually win, between my brain and your brawn," Tom reluctantly admits. He means for it to be an olive branch of sorts, an agreement to do his best alongside Chris, but to his surprise Chris seems to take it as an insult rather than begrudging acceptance.

"Right," he snarls. "Because I'm a brainless ape."

If it were anyone else Tom would correct the misunderstanding, but Chris's tone flares up the familiar anger in him and instead he snarls back. "Well, if the shoe fits."

"Fuck you," Chris says through gritted teeth, shifting on his feet as if he might move himself into Tom's space.

"Boys," Frank says, snapping his fingers in their direction. "Let's at least attempt to get along, shall we? You'll need to behave like a team or you're not going to win the race."

Confused, both of them give Frank their full attention, and just as Tom is about to subtly feel out what the point of the race is Chris opens his mouth and gets right to the point.

"What are we racing for?"

It's a good question. Ordinarily winning the activities would earn two things: points for the winning team and a respite from evening chores, but with the teams dissolved and no real chores until the morning, there doesn't appear to be any real reason to race.

Zack, clearing his throat a few feet away, points over at the furthest cabin. "I guess we're racing for that."

Tom shifts so that he can see it over Chris's shoulder, and sure enough one of the cabins is obviously different from the others. It's almost twice as wide with a slightly taller roof, and instead of the front porch it has a wrap-around.

Frank points his clipboard in Zack's direction, nodding his approval. "Exactly. Two of you get the privilege of sharing the cabin that contains the common room. More space, and a kitchen of your very own."

A chorus of excited muttering starts up between all the pairs, no doubt excited about having access to the television and games tables that the common room will likely have, but all Tom can think about is the kitchen. Kitchen means kettle, which means a morning cup of tea.

"We need that cabin," he says, and from the corner of his eye he sees Chris nod.

-

"Relay," Frank calls, handing out metal batons from a cardboard box. "One of you runs from the starting line, the other stands at the fifty meter mark and takes the baton to complete the race. First team over the finish line wins the cabin."

Chris takes the baton before Tom can, flipping it over in his hand and catching it a few times as if to test its weight. "Piece of cake."

Tom wants to tell him not to be so cocky, but between the two of them they've won the last four sprint races and it seems unlikely that anyone else will beat them now. Still, Tom isn’t one to take anything for granted.

"Go on then," Chris nods towards the others as they begin to make their way to the halfway mark, making the decision that he's going to start without any input from Tom.

"Just remember to reach with the baton," Tom nods, already backing away because it’s easier than arguing. "I'll start to run as I hear you coming. Okay?"

Chris waves him off instead of answering, leaving Tom to worry as he turns and walks the rest of the way.

It’s not a far walk, but it gives him enough time to really digest the fact that, whether he wins the race or not, he’s going to be sharing a cabin with Chris for the next three weeks. Glancing back over his shoulder he gives Chris the once-over. His hair is a ridiculously yellow shade of blonde beneath the sun, and his eyes are set in their tight squint as he turns this way and that observing his competitors. Tom follows his gaze, noting that most of the others are stretching, preparing, whereas Chris is just standing on the spot, casually swinging the baton back and forth.

Tom grits his teeth. Of course Chris doesn’t even need to warm up in order to win.

“Tough break,” someone says as Tom reaches the line, and glancing over to the voice Tom does a double-take. It’s Max, an Odinite that has been coming to camp since he was eligible, except that he’s about a foot taller than Tom remembers. Where he was short and chubby before, he's now long-legged and lean, built like a runner. "Dick move, putting you two together."

“You’re not joking,” Tom laughs, shaking off his surprise and finally turning his back to Chris. "Max, right?"

Max smiles and nods beside him, holding out a hand to shake. Without letting go he looks back at Chris. “He’s a good guy, I promise.”

Tom huffs non-committally and sets himself in place. Of course Max would say that, as an Odinite, but Tom has experienced years of evidence to the contrary.

Would a good guy have put salt on Tom's toothbrush? Or spread weird rumours about him? Or dumped his duffel in the lake on the last day of camp leaving him to travel home in clothes from the Lost and Found?

That had been humiliating; getting on the greyhound bus in tiny green shorts - that he was sure showed off the curve of his bum - and a denim jacket that definitely belonged to a female camp leader. Worse than the confused and amused looks of most people had been the suggestive looks of a few older men lounging in the back seats. Tom had sat himself firmly in the middle of the bus by a young family and their wiggly kids, and although he hadn't rested at all he had at least felt safe.

He's startled out of his memory by the starting gun, and most of the other boys drop into position as their teammates take off into a run. He waits a moment before risking a glance back and sees that Chris is ahead, but not by much.

“Come on, come on,” he whispers, taking one last hopeful look at the far cabin before turning his back on the oncoming runners. It’s somewhat disconcerting, the thunder of fifteen sets of feet on the floor getting closer and closer, but Tom tries to concentrate on the loudest footfalls, the ones that he assumes are Chris’s.

Trying to loosen up he bounces on his toes, bends his knees in preparation and holds his hand out behind him. The heaviest footfalls are close now, and Tom knows it's Chris because he's so far ahead of the others. When the sounds are just a few feet away Tom starts to run at a careful pace, slow enough that Chris can pass him the baton without dropping it but fast enough that it won’t slow them down. He counts in his head: five, four, three, two-

Chris is so close now his breathing is louder than the sounds of his feet and Tom opens his palm to feel for the baton behind him.

 _One_ , he thinks to himself, just as Chris speeds past him.

"What the-" Tom gasps, stunned, but Chris isn't slowing down. He means to run the full length himself, clearly, but Tom isn't about to let that happen. Just as the others begin to catch up he takes off as fast as he can, concentrating on making his strides as wide as possible until he's just a few feet behind his teammate. "Chris! Give me the baton!"

Chris is going full-speed, carried by the momentum he's already built up, and Tom has to power forward with great effort to properly catch up.

"What are you doing?!" he calls, sprinting as fast as he can to pull up beside Chris and reach for the baton. He gets batted away, and Chris bursts into an even faster run.

"Fuck you!" he grits out over his shoulder, mouth tight and determined. "I'll win on my own."

Tom’s exasperated and already feeling out of breath from his blast to catch up. With his lungs burning, his mouth and throat dry, and his stomach knotting in frustration, he pushes himself, tilts his head down and manages to break even with Chris.

"It's a relay, you dickhead,” he shouts, reaching for the baton again. He gets a grip on it but Chris doesn’t loosen his, and that leaves them running side by side holding on to either end. “You can't win a relay on your own! _Let go!_ "

It’s clear that Chris’s energy is starting wane; his legs slowing, his breathing harsh, and it begins to feel as if Tom is dragging him along by the baton, but still he keeps his grip as tight as he can. For a moment a bright fantasy sparks up behind Tom’s eyes in which he yanks the baton loose and begins to beat Chris across the head with it.

Max breezes past them both.

"Let go!" Tom screams again, and this time when he yanks hard the baton slips from Chris's sweaty grip.

Instead of staying to yell at him, like he wants to, Tom takes off again in pursuit of Max. He has no idea whether or not Chris is still behind him and he doesn't care - he needs to catch Max.

There are a few others just on his tail, all of them trying their best. Zack's Odinite partner is there too, just to Tom's left, but with his bulk Tom suspects he won't be able to keep his speed up for long. His only real worry is Max, up ahead by almost a meter and seeming to be having an easy time of it, his strides long and his arms tucked tight to his body.

Gritting his teeth Tom concentrates on pulling himself in tight too, correcting his form, and tries to muster up some more energy, feeling his stomach churning with the same frustration at Chris's antics. It's the only thing fuelling him on, his anger at Chris, and it's potent enough that he's gaining on Max.

Everyone else falls away until it's just the two of them, Max pacing along, making it look easy, while Tom can barely concentrate on anything other than the burn in his lungs and calf muscles. Digging as deep as he can, he somehow finds the willpower to keep running, and miraculously it begins to pay off.

As the finish line draws near Tom begins to pull up ahead, kicking his feet out ahead of him as far as he can to make each stride impossibly long.

"Dude," Max pants as Tom passes him.

There's no ribbon to break at the end of the race, just a faded white line worn away over the years, and still Tom feels that moment of euphoria as he crosses it barely a second ahead of his competitor.

Years of racing Chris leaves Tom expecting a scowl or a shove from Max but instead the other boy slows to a stop and pulls Tom into a messy embrace, half-hug and half-handshake.

"You're insane," Max laughs as he lets go. "I thought I had you."

Tom can't even talk, can barely stand on his shaky legs. Completely out of breath, he collapses to his knees on the ground and tries to suck in some much needed oxygen. The baton is still in his hand, knuckles so tight they're nearly white.

"Yes!" Chris's voice is suddenly there, his big hand patting Tom hard between the shoulder blades just before he flops down on to his back on the floor.

“You complete dickhead,” Tom growls with the only breath he has, shoving Chris hard. “I hate you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Chris nods, throwing his hands out either side of him. “But at least you get to hate me in the big cabin.”

-

Short of breath, Tom heads over to the pile of bags and tugs his duffel free, shouldering it as Zack comes over to get his. "I can't believe this," he says, sounding completely scandalised. "Are you going to be okay?"

Turning to watch Chris getting similar commiserations from his Odinite friends, Tom nods. "Oh, I can handle him."

Zack slaps him on the arm before jogging off to his teammate Devon, and Tom watches as they jovially head into the cabin that Frank directs them to. Tom drops his free shoulder and lets out a long sigh, hoping that he really will be able to handle his rival-turned-partner.

Chris is still hanging back with his buddies and so, instead of waiting for him, Tom heads straight into the big cabin and drops his bag just to the side of the door.

The floor space inside is impressive, bigger than it seemed from the outside, but it's the newness of the place that really catches Tom's attention. The wooden interior is bright and tidy, yet to be marred by graffiti or careless bumps and knocks, offset by a slightly darker wooden floor. There's a rug in front of a set of comfy-looking chairs, all the fabrics red presumably to avoid any perceived favouritism for either the blue or green house, and a large, bulky television taking up the back corner.

The middle of the floor is taken up by a sizeable pool table, clearly second-hand but still in great condition, and along the wall hang a line of cues.

He hears Chris clomp up the porch steps and then pass behind him straight into the bedroom to the right.

"Mine!" he calls, and when Tom follows him in he sees that Chris has claimed the far bed by the window, hefting his big case onto it. He's looking at Tom as if he expects an argument but Tom just settles his duffel on the other bed without making any fuss and heads back into the main room. The less time spent in small spaces with Chris, the better.

Frank's there in the cabin entrance, clipboard still in hand. He, too, is surveying the cabin like he's pleased with it and Tom can hardly blame him - as far as he knows the old cabins have stood since Frank's parents first opened the camp back in the 50s, full of character but also full of problems. By Tom's first year at camp the cabins had looked as though they were made more of spackling paste than of wood, the floors had groaned out in agony with every footstep and the roof beams had been full of stickers warning campers not to swing on them.

Admittedly, nobody would've expected that a cabin roof would cave in on fourteen sleeping campers...and it probably wouldn't have, if fourteen other campers hadn't had the bright idea to climb on top of it. Ultimately nobody had been seriously hurt in the event, except for Frank whose entire livelihood had been threatened.

Tom still feels an enormous amount of guilt about that.

"Some display of teamwork you showed out there," Frank says, voice dripping with sarcasm, as Chris shifts Tom out of the doorway and wanders across the common room. "I should've given Max and Jonah the win."

Despite his words Tom knows from past experience that Frank has a soft spot for the pair of them, so it's hardly a surprise that he's hoping for them to be friends.

"We'll be a great team," Chris says from the kitchen counter where he's perched himself. He aims a grin at Tom. "Won't we, Tommyboy?"

Huffing, Tom shrugs. "As long as you stop calling me that."

Clicking his fingers, Frank shakes the clipboard in Chris's direction. "Get down from there! Don't plant your ass on the kitchen counter, other campers have to prepare food there!"

He's so serious about it that it's hard not to laugh, and Chris snorts too as he lowers himself with a mumbled, half-hearted sorry.

Frank sighs deeply, aware that they're laughing at him. "Don't abuse the common room, it's everybody's space, okay? And don't bother trying to get any weird cable channels on the television, it's for movie night only."

Chris snorts. "Yeah, Tom, no searching for porn channels in the dead of night, I don't need to hear you tugging one out."

He accompanies the comment with not just a hand gesture but also a sound from his mouth so obscenely accurate that Tom feels his neck and face get hot. Frank levels Chris with a profoundly unimpressed look over the rim of his glasses, but says nothing.

Probably attempting to escape Frank's withering look, Chris begins opening and closing cupboards. The motion seems to awaken Tom's stomach, which grumbles impatiently at him. It's still only just after eleven, but he hasn't eaten since the early hours as he left for camp, and the race has used up what little energy that afforded him.

"No snacks?" Chris says, bending down to open the fridge.

Frank looks down at the schedule on his clipboard. "We're going to meet after lunch to agree on a list of supplies from the budget."

"Good," Chris nods, stepping back to survey the kitchenette once again with his hands on his hips like he owns the place. "We get to come to the store, right? It's our kitchen."

"It's _everyone's_ kitchen," Frank corrects him, heading for the door. "And we're only buying the basics. This is summer camp, the point is to be active and healthy, not gorge yourselves on junk food."

A chorus of boos sound from the porch and they all turn to find several other campers stuffed in the doorway looking in at the room.

"Boys," Frank smiles, the same pride from before on his face as he opens his arms. "Come in!"

He takes to showing them around, a semi-circle guided tour which takes all of fifteen seconds, and in that time Zack sidles over to Tom, already lifting a pool cue off the wall.

"This is nice," he says, sweeping his hand across the felt tabletop. Bending over, he cues up an imaginary ball and mimes a shot. "You up for some Killer Pool? How much money do you have with you?"

Frank won't stand for them gambling, and Tom's never been particularly good at pool anyway so he only shrugs non-committally.

Zack moves around the table, taking in the little kitchen area and the rows of semi-decent chairs at the back, sighing deeply. "You lucky bastard."

"If I was _lucky_ I'd have a different teammate," Tom counters, looking over at Chris trying to tune the TV despite what Frank said. A couple of Odinites are at his shoulders, pointing at different buttons on the remote as they try to miraculously find channels without an aerial.

"It probably won't be that bad," Zack shrugs, following Tom's eyes. "How bad can he be?"

"How bad?" Tom parrots, incredulous. "Zack, last year he nearly drowned me before the kayak race."

He'd flipped Tom's kayak, a move which he'd later declared to be 'just a joke', but the humour of it had been lost on Tom as he was dragged from the lake soggy and short of breath. His life jacket, intended to keep him safe, had caught on the seat of the submerged kayak and no matter how hard he'd tried to pull himself free he'd remained stuck there, upside down and rapidly running out of air. It had taken three leaders to roll it, and in his panic Tom had swallowed a gut-full of the murky water.

"He did say sorry," Zack concedes, as if that makes it any better.

And Chris had said sorry, with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders pulled up sheepishly, somehow attempting to spin it as if it hadn't entirely been his fault. Tom had told him in no uncertain terms to piss off.

Will and a couple of the other Cobalts file in, getting the same brief tour from Frank, and then Will comes and snatches the cue from Zack's hands. "Killer pool?" he grins, and Tom rolls his eyes.

"I'm going outside for some air," he says to nobody in particular, and is vaguely waved off by Zack.

The cabins are located in such a place so they can't see the other cabins over the hill, but they can see the tower of the main building and the large speaker that sits atop it. The main building houses the large dining hall on the ground floor and bedrooms for the staff upstairs, plus the general common room which acts as a registration space on the first day. The lake is to the right of the new cabins, and looking over to see it Tom's met with the view of several campers out on the porches of their cabins.

Right next door is Max, with a length of rope hanging between his teeth, and when he spots Tom looking he lifts a hand and lets out a muffled, "Hi neighbour."

He's struggling to hang a portable lantern above the chairs on the porch next door, trying to hold the lantern up one-handed and tie off the small length of rope with the other.

The wrap-around porch of the big cabin leaves only a gap of about a foot between the two, and so when Tom moves to help he doesn't even have to lean over much to hold the lantern in place.

Max smiles softly, tying the rope with ease. He's basically the opposite of Chris, with a less-defined jaw, narrow shoulders, and shiny brown hair that flops down across his forehead. Altogether it gives him a soft, harmless appearance that Tom finds curiously appealing. When he lets go the lantern swings gently to and fro, and Max reaches up to flick it on and off again. "Thanks."

"No problem." Tom wants to say more, like how he can't believe they've never really talked before, but it would be a lie. The two teams never really mixed, having seen each other as rivals for so long, and so he knows almost nothing about the Odinities at camp. Chris is, in fact, probably the one he knows most about.

As if on cue, Chris's voice sounds from the doorway.

"No, you go without me," he's saying, smiling at his Odinite friends who're heading down the steps. "I'm gonna stay here, relax a bit."

They begin to make their way across the field and Max calls out to ask where they're going, rushing after them when they say they're going to the dining hall.

"I'll talk to you later, Tom!" he calls over his shoulder.

Chris, still in the doorway, watches Max go before looking at Tom with a frown. "You two seem friendly. I've always found him to be a bit weird."

"You mean because he's nice?" Tom murmurs, and Chris shoots him a look before turning to disappear back inside the cabin.

Everyone's gone, either to eat or just to settle into their cabins, and when Tom eventually follows Chris inside he finds him in the bedroom, already sprawled on his bed above the blankets.

The room is nice, with light wood walls that manage to offset the small amount of light admitted by the two small windows. The beds are bigger than the ones in the old cabins, both longer and wider, and Tom laughs airily to himself at the sudden memory of his toes peaking over the edge of the bed in the Cobalt cabin.

"What's funny?" Chris asks, sounding like he wants to take a nap. He has his eyes closed and his big hand resting over his flat stomach as it rises and falls with his breath. He's unfairly handsome, Tom has always thought so, and it makes his blatant personality flaws all the more offensive. The idea of having to spend nearly every waking minute for the next three weeks working with him is a nightmare that Tom couldn't even have imagined a few hours ago.

When Chris's blue eyes open in search of an answer Tom looks quickly away and clears his throat.

"Nothing," he says, shrugging. "I'm going to eat. Don't touch my stuff."

Chris grins, closing his eyes again. "Wouldn't have even occurred to me if you hadn't said it."

Past experience tempts Tom to take his duffel with him to the dining hall, just in case, but realistically he knows he can't cart the thing with him everywhere until the end of camp, so he's going to have to attempt to put some trust in his new teammate. Still, he hesitates by the door until Chris's breathing evens out and he looks as if he's already settling into a light sleep.

-

Evening one is always a campfire party, and after using the afternoon to settle in everyone heads to the clearing where the fire is being built. Frank and his daughter Meredith, a camp leader for as long as Tom has been coming to Cooper's Rock, are laying out boxes of crackers and marshmallows for s'mores.

It's not yet dark, but the buzz of excitement that was absent from the morning begins to hit as the younger campers traipse over the hill. It's clear from their green and blue armbands that they're still split into Camp Cobalt and Camp Odinite, and one of the younger Cobalts calls out to Tom as he passes, grabbing him by the wrist.

"Is it true they've broken the teams?" he asks, recoiling in horror when Tom nods. Gripping his armband in a tight fist he looks around his teammates. "Think they'll do it to us next year?"

Patiently as he can, Tom smiles. Last year his cabin was next door to theirs and they'd all witnessed Tom and the others make their ascent - and rapid descent - of the Odinite cabin. No doubt they're mentally blaming him for the new development.

"Well, " he shrugs, finally spotting Will and a few of the others. "They didn't build fourteen new cabins just for one year, did they?"

Excited by the drama of it the boys race over to the new cabins, leaving Tom to meet Will and the others by the fire. Zack isn't far behind them, and by the time the fire is burning and everyone is there, it's clear that splitting the teams up hasn't made any difference. Chris doesn't even give Tom a look as he arrives, going straight to the Odinites on the other side of the fire.

It's like nothing has changed, much to Tom's relief. He listens as his friends talk about how their years have been, Charlie and Kevin bickering over which one of them failed to respond to the other's letter, and, with the fire warming his face and remnants of marshmallow drying sticky on his fingers, he lets himself sink into the familiarity of it all.

If Frank had hoped for more mixing he says nothing about it, leaving them to socialise with their old teams. Tom doesn't doubt that he'll expect a rapid change come morning, but he's grateful for the time spent out of Chris's company.

By the time the horn sounds out to signal bedtime the fire has dwindled to a light yellow glow and everyone is huddled around it sharing memories of camp the year before. Charitably, nobody mentions _the incident_.

The Cobalts head back first, splitting off into their separate cabins with dramatic farewells, and Tom is already in bed by the time Chris gets back. He undresses in the room, bending down to rifle through his case in the dark for sleepwear, and Tom tries not to look.

"I still can't believe this is happening," Chris says out into the darkness.

Tom rolls his eyes even though Chris can't see him and it doesn't have the benefit of pissing him off. "I don't know. We should've seen something coming. No way were they going to let us get away with what happened last year."

Chris hums, not really an agreement, and lifts his blankets.

They lie in silence for a while, a wall of awkward tension between them. It's too unfamiliar, too soon for any kind of comfort to strike up, and Tom shuffles down further under the blankets and hopes he gets some sleep.

"I nearly shit myself, in a very literal way, when that roof caved in," Chris suddenly says, and Tom's mind fills instantly with the image of Chris freeing himself from beneath a fallen meter of roofing sheet, hair mussed from sleep, outrage and shock warring for dominance on his face as he looked around the fallen Cobalts littering the floor of the cabin.

He laughs at the memory of it, reminded of his own scream of utter horror when the material had begun to sink beneath the collective weight of his team. "I'm the one who fell seven feet and landed on a bedpost. Thought I'd broken my pelvis."

"You would've deserved it," Chris says, but there's no malice in his tone.

Truthfully, Tom probably would've deserved it. Not just for allowing his teammates to follow him up and destroy the cabin, but also for letting their rivalry get to that point. They fall into another silence then, and Tom wonders if perhaps Chris is laying a little of the blame on himself too.

If there's ever going to be an apology between them Tom thinks that this is probably the time for it, but when Chris next speaks it's only to say, "They better let us paintball."

It's a thought that hasn't even occurred to Tom and he lifts his head in worry. "You don't think they'd stop us, do you?"

The annual paintball event, the one activity reserved solely for final year campers, was something that Tom had always looked forward to. Every year he'd imagined suiting up in the khakis and heading off into the woods with the other Cobalts and their blue flag, awaiting the Odinites in their attempts to attack and conquer.

There's a rustle as Chris shifts to face him in the dark. "This morning I'd have said no way but look at this. And, be honest, would you trust us to handle rifles filled with compressed gas? He probably thinks we'll find a way to kill each other with them."

Genuine worry fills Tom then. Chris is right, it seems unlikely that they're heading for anything remotely resembling the paintball tournaments of old, not with their track record, but there's no way Tom is letting them take away the one activity he's been deprived of until now.

"No," he says, resolute, throwing his feet over the side of the bed and sitting up to face Chris's bed. "We're going to just have to do really well. Play Frank's game, be a team. Show him that we're responsible adults."

Chris sits up too, and it startles Tom for a second that he's shirtless. He seems a little amused by Tom's dramatics but he holds a hand out to shake, his grip firm when Tom accepts the offer.

"You think we're really capable of this? Teamwork?" he asks, looking entirely doubtful about the whole thing.

And despite being certain they won't make it, that they really might kill each other before camp ends, Tom gives a determined nod.

"What could go wrong?"

-


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to [umakoo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/umakoo), [velociraptor_hands](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Velociraptor_Hands/) and [sheilatakesabow](http://sheilatakesabow.tumblr.com/) for support and guidance. All mistakes are my own.

The first two days go, frankly, better than Tom could’ve hoped.

He wakes up on Monday morning to find Chris hovering, still shirtless, with his ear to the bedroom door, and before he can even open his mouth to speak Chris gestures for him to shush. With an eye roll, Tom sits up in the bed and tries to hear whatever Chris is hearing.

It’s an odd sound, a rasp and click against the wall with no decipherable rhythm, and Tom feels his brow crease in a frown that matches Chris’s. It’s barely seven in the morning, far too early for anyone to reasonably be using the common room, and yet clearly somebody is.

Wordlessly he slips out of bed in the hopes of finding out who it is, ignoring the way Chris rolls his eyes when the floor creaks under his feet.

“You should be a ninja,” Chris sarcastically remarks at a whisper once Tom is at his side. “Silent and deadly.”

Suppressing the urge to elbow him, Tom reaches for the doorknob. At Chris’s nod he yanks it fast in the hopes of startling their intruder, but instead all they get is Frank turning slowly to look at them, balancing precariously on one of the chairs with a thick piece of white chalk in his hand.

“Ah, morning boys,” he smiles, not even pausing in his writing. “Sleep well? Why don’t you come and give me a hand?”

-

While Tom dictates the names for Frank to write up on the chalkboard-slash-leaderboard, Chris announces that he’s going for a shower. Their small bathroom has just the toilet and sink, with the communal shower room being over in the main building. He’s still only wearing his pyjama bottoms and a pair of flip-flops, towel slung over his arm, and Tom snatches his eyes away when they catch on the shift of Chris’s shoulder muscles as he walks. He does a double-take though, spying the bright red bag in Chris’s hands.

“Is that my wash bag?” he chokes out, surprised by the brazenness of Chris rooting around in his duffel.

Chris has almost closed the door before Tom finishes his sentence but he pokes his head back in, smiling serenely as he says, “Yeah, forgot mine. You don’t mind do you... _roomie_?”

His tone is all smarm under the guise of angelic innocence, Tom swears he might’ve even batted his lashes, but in the face of their pact from the night before there’s nothing Tom can do about it in front of Frank. They’d agreed on civility and so he has to play nice.

“Of course not,” he forces out, trying to sound relaxed about it. “Go ahead.”

He stays there, looking at the door even once it’s closed. He imagines following Chris across the field and into the shower room to throttle him without witnesses, nakedness be damned.

“That was nice of you,” Frank comments without much ceremony, not even looking away from the board.

Still a little stuck on the thought of strangling a wet, naked Chris, Tom clears his throat. “Well, we’re teammates now.”

He's not sure how convincing it sounds. He's been in the theatre programme since his first year at camp but when it comes to Chris he's not sure he'll ever believably be able to swallow down his irritation.

“That you are,” Frank nods, finishing writing team ten - Mikey and Scott - with a flourish. “Who’s next?”

-

Tom spots some familiar faces at breakfast; old campers recruited as counsellors, all decked out in ugly khaki polo shirts. He considers saying hello to the ones he knows, the ex-Cobalts, but they have their hands full with the younger kids.

Afterwards though, when Frank calls the final years out of their cabins to face their next challenge for points, there’s a handful of counsellors behind him. They're a mixture of ex Odinites and Cobalts, and had been fully supportive of Tom and Chris’s rivalry the year before, but they all look smugly amused by the mixed teams, particularly when Tom and Chris emerge from the same cabin.

After some minor teasing they lead everyone out across the field into the clearing, where Tom is disheartened to find standing targets awaiting them. Riflery has never been his strong suit; he doesn't like the noise, even with mufflers on, and he can count on one hand the number of times he's hit the target in the last four years.

"Looks like this one's all on you," he says, patting Chris on the arm with a shrug.

Unfortunately, it turns out that his memory of Chris being a fairly good marksman is a huge mental exaggeration. He's competent at most, and between the two of them they hit only four targets out of twelve, with nowhere near enough accuracy to place them high on the leaderboard. In the end it takes a shoot-off between Max's teammate Jonah and Will to determine a winner, with the points going to Jonah.

Considering how well Max ran the race, Tom is officially worried that their neighbours might prove to be a genuine threat. Chris seems equally moody about the whole thing, stomping heavy-footed back over the field, and it's only worsened by the fact that when they head back to their cabin they're forced to watch Frank write up the scores.

"Don't forget our points," Chris reminds him, tapping their blank space on the board.

Dusting off his hands, Frank puts the chalk away without writing anything next to their names and says, "The race didn't count for points."

Silence hangs for a moment while they take that in, and then both Chris and Tom speak at once in shared outrage, a jumble of words so indecipherable that even Tom isn't sure what he was trying to say. Frank just spreads his arms as if inviting them to look around at their cabin.

"But-" Tom breathes, already knowing that it's futile. Frank has always been fair but firm, and it's unlikely that he'll be budged once a decision has been made, but still Tom tries to appeal to him. "The race has always counted towards the points. Everybody already probably thinks we've got a point for the race so isn't it better that we just have it? To save confusion?"

Beside him Chris is nodding vehemently, hands on hips, and for the first time Tom actually feels as if they're on the same side. It's inarguable that they ran hard for that race, even if they were running against each other at the time, and it's unfair to deny them the points they expected.

Unfortunately for them, Frank isn't moved. "You should consider law school," he tells Tom, patting him on the shoulder. "You're good at that whole indignant, _appealing to the better nature of the judge_ thing. But no, you got the cabin for the race, I'm afraid you'll have to make your points up in other activities."

Once he's gone they stand together in annoyed silence, both staring up at the board.

"Well, we tried," Tom says, simply to fill the quiet.

The sneering side-glance he receives in response is so scathing he almost steps away, and just like that any feeling Tom had of being on the same side is gone.

"We tried?" Chris laughs, one of exasperation rather than humour, and then he's shaking his head. "You mean _I_ tried. You decided you couldn't do it before we'd even started."

Tom bristles, both at the tone and the implication of blame, but when he opens his mouth to defend himself Chris just waves him off and heads into the bedroom.

They avoid each other for the rest of the morning. Tom doesn't even try to say goodbye when he heads out to help set up the main Rec Hall for the afternoon's drama session. It's physical work, dragging heavy boxes of costumes and props out of the storage for improv games, but it's not enough to distract him from what Chris had said.

The worst of it is that no matter how hard he tries to twist it in his mind, he can't deny that Chris is right; he did give up, and in doing so he laid all of the pressure to win on Chris.

He can't apologise of course, it's just not how they work, but as he heads through to the dining hall just before midday he resolves to make up for it by trying his best in the next competition.

Chris is in the lunch queue and acknowledges him, barely, with the slightest nod before Tom takes his food back to the Rec Hall. Some of the younger boys tail him there to talk while they eat, and before Meredith and the counsellors have even arrived he's got a game of Alphabet going.

He's there all afternoon and eats with the drama group when dinner rolls around, and though he passes his eyes over the room he sees no sign of Chris. He finds him back at the cabin with his feet up on the chairs, staring at the leader board again.

"How does he know we're not going to rub out the real scores and list ourselves as the winners?" Chris says instead of a greeting, and honestly Tom is surprised to be acknowledged at all.

He shrugs, closing the door behind himself, and because he's too tired to think of anything nice to say, he says, "Not even you're that stupid."

He's already in the bedroom when he hears Chris grumble, "Whatever, fuckhead."

-

The competitions are spread out across the three weeks with a one day break in between for things like crafts, drama, hiking or just leisure time, which means it'll be Wednesday before Chris and Tom can potentially earn themselves any points.

Meredith watches over the crafts session even though she hates it, so she doesn't make much of a fuss when Frank shifts it back an hour to make time for the budget meeting. They sit around the empty fire pit and all write one item they'd like from the store on a piece of paper before passing it down the line to Frank.

"...cake mix?" he reads, shaking his head. "What're we going to do with cake mix? Who wrote this?"

In the end they settle on a list of items that everyone can agree on, ensuring that there's enough ingredients for s’mores to last the next three campfires - all of which will be on Saturdays - and plenty of potato chips, popcorn and other savoury snacks to see them through movie night. Tom has to fight a hard battle for his right to teabags and long-life milk, leaning on his Britishness and the sheer _necessity_ of tea in his life, and in the end Frank agrees that he can pick some up using his own money.

"They don't get free reign of the stuff just because it's in their cabin though, right?" one of the Odinites says, and Chris leans over to flick him on the ear.

"Of course not," Frank assures everyone, holding up a small padlock. "Snack cupboards will be locked at all times."

Tom glances at Chris across the fire and can't help but snigger, positive that he's never seen anyone look so disappointed.

Chris won't even come to the store, deciding instead to stay and join Meredith for crafts, and though Frank is clearly disappointed the same can't be said for Tom, who thinks it's probably for the best.

"I'll come," Max offers from his porch as they leave, rolling his sports magazine up and tucking it behind the cushion. "Extra pair of hands."

They're piling into the van when Chris jogs over and taps on the window.

"Changed my mind," he says, smiling lightly. "I should probably come. For the heavy lifting and stuff."

Frank smiles back patiently, turning the key to bring the engine to life. "That's okay, Chris. Thanks."

There's something both satisfying and kind of sad about Chris's surprised expression as Frank begins to pull away.

"Wonder what changed his mind?" Max says from his seat, tucked in between Frank and Tom.

"Not a clue," Tom replies, eyes caught on Chris as he disappears from view in the side mirror.

-

By Wednesday they've fallen into a routine of sorts.

The tactic is low-level avoidance and for the most part it works. They can't exactly have complete separation since they live together, but they tend to gravitate towards different activities which means that most of their mornings and afternoons are spent apart. During their downtime at the cabin Tom reads on the porch or cleans the kitchen, leaving Chris to either listen to his Walkman in the bedroom or hang with his friends in the common room once Tom and his cleaning products have vacated.

Chris's taste in music is as crap as his headphones and Tom can hear muffled music whenever he's nearby, but it's better to have Chris bopping his head to his stupid music than attempting to have a potentially disastrous conversation. The less opportunity they have to argue, the better.

It's only been three days and Chris has already developed a habit that is both annoying and concerning. When the cabin is empty and Tom is utilising the old kettle to make himself a cup of tea, Chris will come right up behind him and lean unnecessarily close to get himself a glass of water.

It's annoying because his bloody muffled music ends up right in Tom's ear, often accompanied by off-key humming, and it's concerning because every time it happens Tom feels his stomach jolt with excitement.

Clearly his stomach doesn't understand what an utter wanker Chris is.

"Can you not do that?" he asks before breakfast, still half-asleep and not prepared for the warm palm Chris plants at the base of his spine while he leans over to fill his glass.

Almost a full twenty seconds go by before Chris seems to realise that he's been spoken to. Playing innocent, yet again, he pulls one speaker away from his ear. "Did you say something?"

The kettle boils off, wobbling a little in its perch, and for some reason Tom just shrugs and says, "I said good morning."

-

They don't see each other after breakfast - at least, Chris doesn't see Tom. The morning activity is Soccer, led by a counsellor named Tommy who is apparently on the cusp of 'going pro', and Tom has decided to sit it out up on the hill with his book. From here, he happens to have a very clear view of the players.

The activity is open to everyone, boys fifteen through to seventeen gathering on the makeshift pitch, and as some of the boys have yet to hit their growth-spurts they're hilariously diminutive in comparison to the final years. They're separated into shirts and skins despite the fact that Tom has seen coloured bibs in the storage room, and privately, to himself, Tom can admit to being a little disappointed that Chris isn't on the skins team. As it is he's just sweating a dark patch into the chest of his t-shirt.

It's almost funny to watch him racing back and forth, waving his arms around to show that he's open. The others don't seem to trust him with the ball and Tom can't really blame them, he's built more for rugby these days.

"Let's go to the common room, play some pool," Zack prods, lying beside him squinting up at the sky. After four years Zack has developed a real talent for finding him, wherever he is, and bugging him until he concedes to do 'something fun'.

Tom hasn't turned a page for more than ten minutes but he turns one now. "I just want to read here."

"Read," Zack scoffs. "You're not reading, you're watching Chris Hemsworth play soccer."

"Football," Tom corrects obnoxiously, mostly as a distraction. Even if it's apparently obvious what he's doing he's not going to admit it.

Zack shoves him. "When in Rome, call it soccer."

"Well that's just silly," Tom murmurs. "If I was in Rome I'd be calling it _calcio_."

As he speaks, one of the younger players scores, sending his team into a chorus of cheers as they crowd him, two of them hefting him up onto their shoulders. Even from the hill his proud grin is obvious.

"Is there a language you don't speak, dorkus?" Zack asks, apparently unmoved by the display on the pitch.

Tom hums, thoughtful. "I struggle with Icelandic."

Zack grunts as he pushes himself up onto his feet. "Alright, smartass, I'm going to the common room."

He shuffles his way down the hill and passes the football game at a jog. Once he's disappeared inside the cabin, Tom turns back to his book. He reads the top sentence on the page three times, not taking any of it in, before finally letting his eyes slip back to the field.

The skins team have put the boy down, moving back into their positions as the ball is thrown in from the corner by one of the counsellors. He's still smiling to himself, and it only grows wider when Chris passes him and ruffles his hair despite being on the opposite team.

Briefly, Tom wonders if they would've gotten along better had one of them been a year older. Without the rivalry it's entirely possible that they could've been something like friends.

Just then, as if he can feel eyes on him, Chris looks over his shoulder up at the hill. It feels like their gazes lock, although Tom can't be sure from so far away, and when he lifts a hand in a loose wave Chris nods in return before turning his attention back to the game.

Tom doesn't stay long after that, unwilling to get caught watching again, and when he gets back to the cabin there's a full-on game of Killer Pool in motion. Thankfully it's mostly coins on the table edge rather than notes.

“High stakes, I see,” he says as he takes a seat beside Max. “Are you in?”

Zack is bent over the table taking aim, and although it was his idea in the first place, his expression tells Tom that he's not doing very well. Killer pool is played in turns and there are five others standing around waiting for Zack to take his, more impatient by the second.

“I'm in for a dollar,” Max nods, leaning forwards as Zack takes his shot and pots a ball. “We only just started, you should've come earlier.”

Tom shrugs, “I've never been very good at it.”

“I’ll teach you,” Max tells him, sliding off the chair to take his turn.

Tom takes it for a passing remark and after a while shuffles into the bedroom so he's not in the way, but once the game has finished - with Zack fighting his way back to win himself seven dollars and a quarter - Max pokes his head around the door.

When Chris gets back, sweaty and boastful about his team’s win, the grin slips right off his face at the sight of Max leaning over Tom to show him a proper aim. They each look up, stilled by his sudden appearance, and after a moment’s pause he stomps through into the bedroom.

“It's like firing a rifle, kind of,” Max says softly, ignoring Chris’s weird behaviour and pointing down the line of the cue. “Try not to close one eye. I know it seems like the aim is more accurate that way but it's not.”

They're close, and Max’s expression is all openness when Tom laughs and turns slightly to face him. “Nobody ever told me not to close one eye during riflery.”

Max laughs eyes bright when he says, “That explains why you're so crap at it.”

Chris emerges from the bathroom then, towel in one hand and Tom’s red wash bag in the other.

“I'm taking this,” he says forcefully, holding it up for a second, and then he's gone.

-

During lunch they're made to sit in their pairs while they're informed that they'll need to collect waterproofs from the storage room for the afternoon's competition.

"Kayak race," Chris says once they're back in their cabin rustling their way into the plastic clothes. "Has to be. We'll win this one."

Tom tries to bite his lip, keen to keep to their agreement, but he's still sore about last year and so he ends up grumbling, "Sure, if you don't tip me out this time."

Chris's laugh sounds forced. "You're so bitter."

With one leg inside the horrendous waterproof trousers, Tom must look ridiculous as he sneers, "Of course I'm bitter, you cheated me out of my win!"

He's starting to get used to the cold silence that follows their arguments, they've spent the last two nights lying in the dark not talking, but it's still uncomfortable. The tension is stark in the room, each of them throwing glances at each other, nothing filling the air except ugly rustling.

Once he's pulled the jacket zip all the way up to his chin, Tom heads straight out to wait for the others by the lake. Chris is right on his heels, jogging briefly to catch up.

Matter-of-factly, he says, "You'd never have won that race, Tom."

It stops Tom in his tracks, mouth agape, and when Chris stops too he just shrugs as if he's only being honest. As if he's doing Tom some kind of favour.

It's instinct that has Tom stepping into his space, squaring his shoulders and prodding a finger hard into the centre of his chest. His fingertip catches on the soft cotton of his t-shirt, his waterproof jacket hanging undone at his sides, and he prods harder but Chris doesn't budge an inch. Tom narrows his eyes. “I could beat you in a kayak with my eyes closed.”

Chris dismisses that with a ‘pfft’ sound.

A few of the other pairs pass around them without stopping but Tom doesn't see who because he doesn't take his eyes off Chris.

They're toe-to-toe, close enough to feel each other's breath, and Tom lets a haughtiness slip into his tone as his murmurs, “You must think so too, or you wouldn’t have pulled the crap you did last year."

“Yeah?” Chris goads, tilting his chin up like a challenge.

“Yes,” Tom snaps,  “And I’ll prove it on the lake.”

-

“No kayaks,” Frank announces, looking pleased with himself.

Behind him, along the bank of the lake, are fifteen piles made up of planks of wood, oars, empty plastic barrels, rope and life vests.

To his left, Tom hears Chris mutter beneath his breath, “What?”

“You do have to get across the lake,” Frank continues, rocking back and forth on his sock-and-sandled feet. “But you have to do it by building a raft, in pairs.”

Resigned, Tom lets out a sigh. He swore to himself that he'd try his best in all future challenges but the very nature of their relationship leaves them at a disadvantage in a challenge like this. Teamwork is not remotely their strong suit.

“I’m not thrilled about it either, okay,” Chris says, dragging Tom over to their pile of materials. Hands on hips he scans them before looking out across the lake. “But we’re gonna win this fuckin’ race.”

-

Tom’s attempts to consider the science of it all are scuppered at every turn by Chris’s attempts to build faster than any of the other teams. It's almost mesmerising, the vigour with which he takes to the task of tying planks to barrels, but there's no finesse to it. Furiously he winds the rope around and around until it's as thick as his arm, pulling it taut in a knot they learnt long ago from Frank.

“You’re using too much rope, we'll run out. Plus, you’ll weigh it down.”

Chris glances up at him with a huff, beginning to do the same on the other side. “We have to both stand on it, genius, if it can’t take the weight of some rope then this whole thing is pointless.”

Tom concedes to that, crouching down beside the rest of the materials and trying to make sense of it. They have eight planks of wood, three lengths of rope, two large barrels and four life jackets. The sun is glaring off the lake so brightly that he has to squint to see the other side and when he looks back at Chris there are spots dancing in front of his eyes.

"I think it's about half a mile."

Chris has two of the planks attached either side of the barrels, a plan that would probably work if they had more rope, but Tom can clearly see that they'll run out before all of the planks are attached.

"Untie that," he says, rounding Chris and pointing to the knot he's about to tighten.

If Chris is annoyed about being ordered around he breathes through it, slowly unwinding the rope as he looks up at Tom expectantly. He says nothing, but his face says it all; 'Go on then, genius.'

"Diagonally," Tom says, pulling the other plank up and holding it in place at a right-angle to the other plank. "I'll hold this here, you secure the rope diagonally across. You see?"

He looks to Chris for his approval and is surprised to be met with a small smile. Chris nods, glancing at the other groups before going to work fastening the rope as instructed.

Within five minutes they've indeed built something, but Tom isn't convinced that it's going to ferry two people across a body of water. He looks on with unmasked scepticism as Chris pushes it towards the water, holding his breath as it slips off the grass bank.

Unexpectedly it does float, but it bobs erratically, no great stability to it, and Tom knows that the moment either of them step on it the thing will tip, potentially disappearing beneath the water.

“That won’t take our weight," he says, hands on hips. It's tempting to try and see what the others are doing to stabilise theirs but he doubts their creations will be any more capable of carrying them.

“Well," Chris says, stepping closer under the guise of surveying their raft. "There's only one way to find out."

Then, with a grunt, he shoves Tom hard off the bank.

With a pitiful yelp Tom tries to grab for him, relieved when his fingertips catch on the collar of Chris’s t-shirt. Any security he feels when his fingers hook into the material is short-lived though when, accompanied by the distinct sound of cotton tearing, he falls backwards to land on the raft, arse first, with a thump.

It takes all of three seconds for the raft to begin to tip and as Tom tries to steady it, sinking slowly into the icy cold water, he stares up at Chris in utter shock.

"Oh shit," Chris chokes, obviously trying to hold in a laugh. "I really thought that would hold."

There's laughter from the other teams too, which only increases in volume as Tom tips half-off the raft and has to dig his foot into the muddy lake bed to stop himself from sliding fully into the water.

Chris steps in too, one leg on the grassy bank and the other in the mud, offering his hand to help yank Tom out. Tom takes it, because he has little choice, but as soon as he has steady footing again he pulls away, surveying the thick brown mud that has completely covered his shoes while Chris pulls the raft back up onto land.

"Look what you did to my t-shirt," Chris complains, pulling the torn cotton aside to reveal his bare chest. It's ripped from the collar down to the side at the seam and instead of trying to cover himself Chris just leaves it hanging.

"What _I_ did?” he says, wiping his wet hands uselessly down the thighs of his trousers. He doesn't have the energy or the desire to give it any real heat, not with Chris looking so ridiculous in his torn t-shirt. “Is there a particular reason you keep trying to drown me?”

Chris’s shoulders begin to shake, the laugh he'd held in before is coming to the surface now. “I can't drown you in half a metre of water, Tom. Besides, that’s what the life vests are for.”

“I'm not wearing a-” Tom starts, cutting himself off mid-sentence as realisation strikes him. Looking around quickly, scanning everybody else, he sees the same thing. He grabs for Chris’s wrist, tugging him close so the other teams can't hear. “Nobody is wearing a life vest. They didn't make us put them on.”

Chris looks at him like he's losing his mind. “So? We can all swim.”

“Exactly!” Tom can't help but grin, unable to believe he hadn’t worked it out sooner. “The life vests aren’t for us. They’re for stabilising the raft!”

In a rush of excitement they work as a team, tying a vest to each corner of their raft, trying to work quickly and subtly so as not to alert the other teams to their discovery. They're slowed by how well Chris had tied the original knots, but it doesn't take long for them to get their raft back into the water.

“You first,” Chris tells him, but instead of shoving him on he holds a hand out to steady him, palm against Tom’s back as he spreads his legs to find balance. After that he just has to take the oars and keep himself steady as Chris follows him on, holding him by the shoulders while he steadies his own feet.

“Oh shit, they're on!” Jonah yells from a few teams down, immediately beginning to shove his own raft towards the water. Tom only risks a quick glance, and then he and Chris lower their oars and begin to move.

It becomes clear that they have to hold each other close for balance, each with their legs spread wide to even out the weight on the raft, and before long Chris has wrapped his free arm right around Tom’s waist.

His body is broad and near solid against Tom’s back, arm tightening slightly with every slight rock of the raft, and his breath is warm against Tom’s ear when he huffs, “You’re wet.”

Purposefully, Tom lets his own oar slap down hard against the water surface so that it splashes up at Chris. “Piss off,” he murmurs, surprised to find himself smiling.

-

They all pile into warm showers, leaving a mountain of waterproofs by the door, huddling beneath shared shower heads without closing the curtains.

Without negotiation Chris follows Tom, pressing in behind him like he does in the kitchen and reaching around and wind the tap.

They'd won by a far reach, avoiding tipping in as they dismounted on the other side and then waiting smugly while the others traversed the lake on their own make-shift rafts. Several of the teams had tipped or simply sank, some of them swimming the rest of the way while others made the effort to climb back on and keep on sailing.

Tom had taken particular pleasure in seeing Max and Jonah at the very back, having built their oars into the raft and using their hands and feet to move across the lake. They'd tipped about ten feet from shore, abandoning their raft in favour of getting out of the cold water, and when Tom had attempted to offer Max a helpful hand he’d been rushed from behind and shoved in by Zack.

The all-out battle that had commenced had left all of them soaking wet, waterproofs ballooned full of cold water, and Frank blowing his whistle so hard across the water that he'd nearly had an aneurysm. After that they’d been swiftly herded towards the showers.

The water splutters out cold for the first few seconds, followed by a blessedly hot stream, and Tom presses as close as he can to the wall so that Chris can get under the water too.

When they'd first started at camp their age group had all showered at the same time before dinner, always in their underwear, overly conscious of nakedness in their youth. Of course, they shower whenever they like now, and behind the curtains Tom has never felt the need to shower with shorts on. Piling into the showers together now, though, they all stick to tradition and keep their underwear on.

All except for Chris.

“Why are you naked?” Tom hisses when he realises, catching an eyeful of Chris’s cock hanging heavy between his muscled thighs.

It catches the attention of a few of the others too, who laugh, but Chris just shrugs. “Why aren't you?”

Tom very pointedly averts his eyes but he's all-too-aware of the slide of Chris’s wet skin against his own, their hips and arms brushing as Chris cups a hand over himself and shuffles further beneath the spray. Tom tilts his head down so that the water runs over his head and down his back, blinking his eyes open to stare at their feet in the shallow water, and when Chris lifts his hand away from his crotch to grab the old soap from the holder on the wall, Tom can't help but shift his eyes to look.

He's uncut like Tom, but he's thick too and what was intended to be a quick glance becomes a prolonged study. As Chris begins to soap himself, jostling Tom again as he lifts an arm to scrub beneath it, foamy suds wash down his chest and into the thatch of blonde curls that he clearly doesn't trim.

Before long that same soapy hand has made its way down Chris's chest and, as Tom watches from the corner of his eye, Chris begins to palm at himself with a lathered hand. He's rough and quick about it, likely trying to avoid exciting himself, but Tom feels a stirring low in his own groin as he watches.

"You want this?" Chris suddenly says, voice low in both register and volume, and Tom blushes immediately hot at being caught staring, at being _offered_ -

But then he spots Chris's other hand, holding out the soap.

"No," he manages to force out with what little breath he has, backing out from beneath the spray. A few of the others are leaving too, wrapping themselves in grey-white communal towels and grabbing up their waterproofs, and Tom slips out with them and makes a bee-line for the cabin, only stopping to hand his waterproofs in to the counsellors by the storage room.

-

Once he's dressed he takes to the unnecessary task of cleaning the cabin, and when Chris gets back in just his towel and dumps his sodden clothes in a pile on the porch, Tom uses that as an excuse to slip outside.

He lays Chris's clothes out in the sun even though they're musty with lake water, not spotting his neighbours on their own porch until Jonah laughs, "You'll make a lovely wife one day, Tom."

Max smiles, but he does dig his elbow into Jonah's side.

-

Chris must be oblivious to the guilt Tom feels for looking at him the way he did, because he unexpectedly shoulders his way in beside him at dinner. It's still mostly Cobalts at the table but there are some Odinites too, like Zack's teammate Devon, and Chris slips naturally into the speculation about the next challenge.

Everyone seems to like him, it's almost effortless, and where Tom would've been annoyed by it just days before he finds that he's oddly pleased.

That night, when the room falls into familiar quiet, something between them is different, more comfortable, more like the nights Tom remembers in the Cobalt cabin surrounded by his friends. The hushed sounds of the forest around the camp allow a calm to settle.

Tom's always loved this, the sleepy silence of it all once everyone goes to bed, and Chris's voice startles him.

"Do you remember the first time we met?" he says. Tom turns his head and sees Chris's profile in silhouette as he lies on his back looking up at the ceiling.

"I remember."

Chris nods. "I thought we'd probably be friends," he admits, sounding pensive, like he's treading carefully. "You know, both being new and being...not American. I thought we'd take the camp by storm."

Tom wishes he could remember it with similar warmth, but everything about his first day is clouded by the bitter humiliation of losing the race in such undignified fashion. "So why did you trip me?"

Chris's blankets rustle when he shrugs. "It was an accident. Sort of. A moment of panic."

A moment of panic Tom can accept, but he knows that it wasn't an accident. Chris had looked too guilty afterwards when his team had finally stopped celebrating him.

Chris seems to know what he's thinking because, in a rush, he says, "Okay, not an accident, but I didn't mean it. I didn't want to hurt you, I just wanted to beat you to the finish line."

Tom remembers that too; the desperation to impress his new team. "You could've apologised,"

"I was going to," Chris nods, and he looks over then. The lights from the main camp reflect in the whites of his eyes. "But then you made me look so stupid during the quiz, laughing when I got my questions wrong. I was so angry."

Tom recalls it only vaguely. The eleven to fourteen age group always had a quiz on their first day, and despite only joining in his thirteenth year Tom hadn't had to try very hard to get the questions right. It was all nature based, all science, and long walks through the woods with his dad had left him with a vast knowledge of plant and wildlife. After Chris's big win in the race the Odinites had nominated him to represent them in the final ten questions and Tom, having impressed in the earlier rounds, had been chosen by the Cobalts.

“I didn't laugh at you,” he says, but he's not confident that it's the truth. He'd won nine of the ten questions, with ease.

“Tom,” Chris says in a tone that makes it clear he holds authority on the matter. “You laughed.”

Suddenly it's not so hard to see why Chris had disliked him, why their rivalry had gotten out of hand. Chris had certainly been graceless in his wins but Tom had never questioned his own behaviour in return, had never even considered the fact that he was as much to blame.

“Anyway,” Chris sighs, looking back to the ceiling. “I wasn't trying to start an argument, I was just saying, you know, today was good.”

Nodding, Tom shifts further down into his blankets. It's clear that they can make a good team when they try, but he worries too that the better they get along the more intense his crush is going to get. It was easier before, when he could hate Chris and channel his frustration into fantasies of rough fumbles that didn't mean anything, but now that he's starting to see Chris in a different light the comfort of that fantasy is threatened.

He's not sure how to respond, except that he agrees, but when he looks over to say it he finds Chris already asleep.

-

Their tiny sink in their bathroom is already nearly clogged with dried foamy toothpaste in just a couple of days, another thing about living with Chris that Tom could do without. Chris might not be as bad as Tom had always thought but he's definitely untidy. As with everything else, Tom cleans it up without saying a word.

“The sun is shining and we’re exempt from chores,” Chris grins when Tom emerges from the bathroom. He's wearing a backwards cap which makes him look ridiculous but no less attractive, and he's standing purposefully in the glare of the sun through the common room window. “What are you up to after breakfast?”

He says it like his intention is to come along, and it takes Tom by surprise. “Um, well, there's guitar class over in the main building this morning.”

Each set activity has the alternative option for ‘leisure’, allowing campers to choose something else to do if the activity wasn't of particular interest to them. Chris hasn't ever attended a music or drama activity by choice, that Tom can remember, and so he expects that he won't see him for at least a couple of hours.

Hands on hips, Chris smiles. “Cool, maybe you can teach me.”

They leave the cabin together, wandering slowly across the field. Everyone’s milling around doing their own thing, some heading into the canteen.

“What if we ask to have guitar class outside?” Chris reaches up to spin his cap around, the peak shielding his eyes from the sun. “Seems a shame to be indoors.”

They're just passing the lake when Tom goes to answer, but he’s distracted by the sight of Max floating on two of the rafts that he's cleverly tied together. Shirtless and with sunglasses balanced on his strong nose he looks like a model, and when he sees Tom a grin breaks across his face. Both hands are hanging over the edge into the water but he lifts one in a salute, sending a light spray of water over his chest.

"Coming for breakfast?" Tom calls, even though Max and Jonah usually sit at the old Odinite table.

"I guess I should," Max says, looking around at the others heading to the canteen. "I'm kinda relaxed here though...you should get us both some and come eat here with me."

Chris, who had gotten a few feet ahead, suddenly stops and does a double-take. "Is that our raft?"

It's hard to tell with Max sprawled across it, but a closer look confirms it. There are no life vests tied to it anymore, Frank had insisted on them being rescued from the water, but tying it to the other raft has stabilised it enough that it’s okay to lie on.

"Oh, I think so. Maybe." Max shrugs.

Tom smiles over to Chris, proud that their raft has remained afloat, but there's a dark look on Chris’s face as he steps up to the edge of the lake. "Get off it."

Max lets out a surprised laugh, rafts wobbling as he sits up. "What?"

And, as if Chris suddenly realises how ridiculous he's being, he just as quickly drops it and walks off again. Max lifts his sunglasses to watch him go, looking back to Tom with utter confusion. Tom shrugs, heading off after Chris.

"Hey!" he calls, speeding up when Chris doesn't stop. He has to grab Chris's arm to make him turn. "What's your problem with Max?"

"What's _your_ problem with Max?" Chris counters, clearly aggravated although Tom isn't sure why. They were fine just two minutes ago. "Why are you always mooning over him?"

"Mooning?" Tom laughs defensively. "I'm just being nice. Though I understand you'd struggle to recognise that."

That seems to take Chris by surprise, his mouth dropping open. "Are you saying that I'm not nice?"

He looks over Tom’s shoulder at Max before letting out a derisive snort and walking off. Baffled, Tom turns to find Max struggling his way back onto the bank. He pulls the rafts up after him and the pair of them watch as Chris disappears into the canteen.

Chris is already sitting with the Cobalts when they get to the canteen and Max hovers for a minute before deciding to sit with Jonah and the Odinites instead. Tom sits across from Chris and they don't speak, though Chris does throw him the occasional glance.

He expects that he won't see him again until lunch, but just before guitar class starts Chris slumps down next to him on the bench.

"Okay, so what the hell is a G major then?”

-

Friday after breakfast they're given time for their food to digest before the challenge starts, so they already know it's going to be something athletic. Instead of actually letting his food go down though, Chris starts doing pull-ups on the porch rafters.

“I'm not sure that’ll hold your weight,” Tom says, reaching up to tug him down by the sleeves of his t-shirt. He feels the swell of Chris’s tensed bicep as he ignores him and pulls himself up yet again, showing off.

“You've already ripped one of my t-shirts,” Chris says when he finally drops back down and shakes Tom’s hold loose. “If it happens again I might get the wrong idea.”

Staunchly Tom opts to ignore that, though he feels the tips of his ears get hot.

“I reckon it’s the climbing wall,” Chris continues, dropping into press-ups. “I’ll need to warm up.”

Tom rolls his eyes, mostly so he doesn’t end up watching. He has no idea how Chris has decided that out of all the possible activities it's the climbing wall they’ll be doing, so he leaves him to it, heading back inside to sit patiently and wait to find out.

He's somewhat annoyed half an hour later when they're standing in harnesses beneath the climbing wall.

“I knew it,” Chris says casually, looking far too impressed with himself. Despite his athleticism he's got a little pooch beneath his jaw that is being pushed forwards by the chin strap, and the little double-chin makes Tom smile.

“Alright,” he says softly, “Don't be insufferable about it.”

“What does ‘insufferable’ mean?” Chris smiles back, but it's obvious that he's joking. Tom shoves into him with his shoulder.

Together they stand and look up at the task ahead of them. The wall is wide, spanning the entire back of the main building, but in their youth it had seemed much taller, impossible to master. Now that they're grown it's not so intimidating. What’s new is that there are hundreds of blue and green flags stuck at various heights, starting at the very bottom and ending with an unbroken row of flags along the very top edge of the wall.

“We’re going to win this one, right?” Tom says with confidence.

But it's not as easy as it seems.

They’re roped to each other in their teams so that one can belay the other while they climb, and in turns they have to climb the wall to retrieve their flag. Tom’s flags are blue to reflect his Cobalt days and Chris’s are Odinite green. As quick as they can they have to climb up for a single flag before abseiling down and swapping as quickly as they can so the other can climb for his own flag.

The wall fits all of the teams lengthways, just-about, and so the tension is amped up as they all see each other rushing to the wall and beginning to ascend it.

Although the wall doesn't seem as high as it used to there's still enough height that a fall could cause serious damage, and so safety is stressed at each step. Amid the chaos of their climbing, Frank and several of the counsellors monitor them, calling for them to check their loops and carabiners at all times. Tom feels completely safe being belayed by Chris, but when Chris is up the wall and about to abseil down Tom has to drop his weight back into his heels to make sure his hold is steady enough.

It's much harder than Tom had expected, and before long his arms are starting to ache. The rule is that they can only get the lowest flag before coming back down, meaning that each subsequent climb up leaves them more and more fatigued.

“You okay?” Chris asks him after he's come down with his flag from the middle of the wall. He's out of breath and feeling the burn in his shoulders, but he nods, inhaling deeply as Chris works him loose and swaps them ready for his own climb.

Three teams drop out shortly after that, and Tom watches jealously as they collapse to the floor to watch.

The remaining teams are still going up and down the wall, though their climbs are all slower and more laboured. Chris is definitely the fastest amongst them but any progress he makes to put them ahead is lost when Tom takes his turn. Tom’s strength is all in his legs, he could've climbed the wall quickly once, but the process of repeating the climb is getting to him.

He manages to last longer than most of the teams, though he's not afforded as much of a break in between climbs as he really needs because of Chris’s speed up and down.

Still, they're one of the last three teams.

It's a nightmare. Chris has taken his climb right to the top and grabbed his green flag, and now Tom is facing his final climb - against Zack and Max.

“You can do it,” Chris says right at his back. He's exhausted too, breathing heavily against Tom's neck as he reaches around to tug on the fastenings and make sure they're secure.

But Tom’s not sure that he can, and his fears are only confounded when he sees how much faster Zack and Max are ascending. Tom’s long fingers are good for gripping the protruding rocks, but his arms are struggling to take the strain of his own weight. He feels as though his muscles are on fire each time he reaches for the next hold to pull himself up, and as much as Chris tries to help by pulling the rope taut, Tom is slow.

“Shit, where’s my next hand?” Max shouts from the far end of the wall, and Tom glances over to see that he's stuck, having climbed himself into an area with sparse rocks.

“Language, Max,” Frank says, just as Jonah starts yelling for Max to move right. They begin to argue back and forth, more and more heated, and as they do Zack continues to climb towards his flag.

He glances over at Tom, sweat dripping down his forehead and off his nose. “Alright?”

Tom nods, blowing his own sweaty hair out of his eyes and pushing himself up towards his next rock. He feels Chris’s support from beneath him and tries to concentrate on the flag up ahead. He owes it to Chris to try his best.

It's like torture, the burning throb up his arms and shoulders getting more and more intense as he goes, chest aching too as he really begins to feel the exhaustion. He hears Frank’s voice from below him and resolves to give the man a good kick next time he sees him, unable to believe that they've been set such a physically challenging task.

“Chris…” he calls down, shaking his head. He feels like a failure, but he’s scared that if he reaches for another rock he’ll fall.

In the end, he watches from two thirds up the wall, arms shaking and fingers hurting, as Zack grabs his flag and abseils down the wall to be celebrated by Devon.

-

“I'm sorry,” he says as soon as they get back. There's a tight knot of frustration in his stomach and his arms still feel as if they're burning from the inside out. He shakes them out at his sides, desperate to make the feeling stop, and is surprised when Chris moves in and wraps both hands around his upper left arm, beginning to knead it with his fingers.

Involuntarily Tom moans out loud.

“Lactic acid,” Chris says with a smile, digging his fingers in deeper. “And you don't have to be sorry. We both tried and it just didn't work out.”

Tom isn't placated by that, he hates that Chris could’ve won with a different teammate, but he's too focused on Chris’s ministrations to argue right now. The deeper Chris digs with his fingers the more Tom feels himself relaxing, shoulder dropping as Chris works at the muscle.

“You’ll feel this tomorrow,” Chris murmurs, moving around to work on the other arm. “After a hard workout your muscles can take a few days to fully recover, especially if it's not an area you're used to working.”

Honestly Tom could fall asleep on his feet it feels so good, but he likes it when they can quietly talk on their own, and he's been wondering for a while, so he asks, “Is that how you got so...so big over the last year? Going to the gym?”

He's got his eyes closed but he hears Chris laugh a little. “Ah, no. I've been working weekends, helping my older brother build houses and sheds and stuff. Those wooden beams are heavy, you know.”

Tom hums. “I didn't know you had an older brother.”

There's a lot they don't know about each other, obviously, but Tom did know that Chris had a younger brother. He'd seen him the year before, leaving camp with his age group and climbing into the car that Chris had just gotten out of. A small blonde thing, just like Chris used to be.

“Yeah,” Chris says, moving to stand in front of Tom and knead an arm with each hand. They're standing close, and without opening his eyes Tom can feel that Chris is watching his face. “He's a pretty good guy, bit annoying at times, but he got his boss to give me a chance and I've been earning good money most weekends since.”

“Uh-huh...” Tom murmurs, licking his lips because they're dry. He chalks it up to the strenuous exercise rather than anything else. He thinks he should probably say something, or open his eyes, but he doesn’t want to say anything that might make Chris stop.

Suddenly the door flies open, Zack’s voice loud as he says, “Tom, are you gonna-”

He stops dead as Chris and Tom fly apart like they'd been doing something wrong.

“Yes?” Tom says, plastering on a bright smile.

Zack looks between them for a couple of seconds. “Uh, we’re going to watch the Cobalts kayak across the lake. Cheer them on. You coming?”

Pressing his lips together, Tom looks back at Chris. He looks a little shaken but as if he's trying to mask it, hands planted on his hips and eyes focused entirely on Tom.

“You want to?” Tom asks, shrugging one shoulder. It hurts, and he wishes Chris had got a chance to rub there too.

Chris shakes his head, and Tom wants to refuse too, but when he catches Zack’s expression it’s full of suspicion and a little concern, brows pinched as he looks between them. Whatever's going on in his head, Tom knows that he has to put a stop to it.

“Just me then,” Tom says, because he doesn't feel like he has much choice. Chris seems surprised but he doesn't argue when Tom makes for the door, waving briefly behind him as he goes.

-

Chris is right; Tom really does feel the after effects of his climb. By Saturday morning every movement brings with it a dull ache, particularly concentrated at his shoulders, and he groans as he reaches up to get a mug for his morning tea. Chris is right behind him as if it’s instinctual, hand closing around the mug, and Tom’s fingertips.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, but together they lower the mug to the counter top.

Immediately Chris steps out of his space, rubbing at the back of his neck. Something heavy has settled in the air of the cabin, a tension that makes Tom feel as though he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He fidgets, over-stirring his tea and trying to think of something to say, and by the time he settles on a topic for small-talk Chris has disappeared into the bedroom to get dressed.

The morning passes quickly, everyone except Zack and Devon have to help with breakfast clean-up and Chris and Tom are allocated different sections of the canteen. After that it’s baseball before lunch, and although he gets involved at first it’s not long before Tom sits out.

“I’m so glad we don’t have a challenge today,” Devon says from where he’s sunbathing beside Max, and Tom agrees; it’s much too hot for it. Chris is shirtless again, pitching from the small mound they’ve made with cones. Tom picks at the grass, watching the game from beneath his lashes.

After lunch there’s no set activity, and everyone lines up in the main hall with their phone tokens, waiting to call their parents. Tom’s mum is out when he calls but he speaks to his sister. He moans a little about having to pair up with Chris but his heart isn’t really in it, and she’s not overly interested in their rivalry anyway.

Back at the cabin he finds Frank in the kitchen yanking boxes of marshmallows and crackers out of the unlocked cupboard.

“Ready for the campfire party?” Tom asks shifting the boxes out of the way to help. Every Saturday is a big campfire attended by everyone, but as a final year Tom will get to stay beyond curfew for the first time.

“You did well yesterday,” Frank says when he locks the cupboard up again, patting Tom on his sore shoulder. Tom appreciates it, even if he feels it’s a lie.

-

Everyone dresses nicely for the campfires, they always have, and as soon as it's dark they all pile out into the clearing between the woods and the lake where the counsellors have built the fire. They play music from the speaker on the tower, mostly songs that everyone likes and others that make them groan. There are tables full of soda cans that are supposed to be manned by the counsellors, but they’re too busy goofing off to really help out.

The night itself is so balmy and humid that it’s almost impossible to stand by the fire for too long and so there are small groups scattered all around trying to talk above the music. As expected, the younger Cobalts and Odinites don’t really mix, still caught up in the rivalry of it all. At one point the younger Odinites attempt to throw themselves into the lake but Frank puts a stop to it, rounding them up with a threat that they’ll be taken back to their cabin.

The crowd around the campfire is frenzied once the s’mores come out, pushing and shoving, and Tom hangs back to observe them rather than risk getting elbowed over a toasted marshmallow. He hears a couple of the counsellors talking about college and insinuates himself into the conversation, ending up spending a good hour arguing the pros and cons of various campuses with them. He’s still got a year of high school before he has to make any choices but he’s been reading up anyway.

Before he knows it the music breaks off, followed immediately by the signal for bedtime. There’s a collective groan from the younger boys but they go without much argument, leaving the final years with the counsellors while Frank leads them back to their cabins.

The music doesn’t come back on, it would probably be unfair to the other campers, but the fire has faded enough that they can gather on the logs around it and talk without getting too hot. At first it’s a fairly normal talk, crappy versions of ghost stories and exaggerated versions of old camp adventures, but then one of Tom’s old Cobalt teammates, Robbie, leans forwards to prod the fire with stick and says, “Did anyone see Hemsworth in the shower the other day?”

Chris seems surprised to find himself the topic of conversation, but Robbie only offers him a casual shrug.

"I'm pissed off, man. How can you be good looking, athletic, _and_ have a big dick? That's not fair."

It kicks up a chorus of laughs, good-natured but loud, half of the campers nodding while the others cover their faces and laugh into their hands. It's clear they all noticed. Chris is laughing too, sheepishly, and even in the orange glow of the fire it's evident he's gone a bit pink. “Why were you looking?”

“Hey,” Robbie laughs, holding his hand up in innocence. “You clearly wanted us to see your massive cock or you would've kept your shorts on like everyone else.”

The counsellors are trying to swallow their laughter but they’re not doing a great job, all looking between each other like they can’t believe the conversation is happening. Tom is surprised too, even more-so when Chris points at him.

“Tom was right next to me and he didn't look,” he says, and Tom shifts uncomfortably because it's blatantly untrue.

“He didn't need to look,” Zack laughs. “He could probably feel it swinging around down by his knees.”

Tommy, the councillor closest to Tom, shakes his head. “Nah, I refuse to believe it’s that big. You’re exaggerating.”

Zack laughs and holds his hands out about twelve inches apart, but Robbie shoves at him, turning to Tommy to say, “No but it's fuckin’ girthy, man,” before telling Chris, “I'd hate to see you hard. That thing must be terrifying.”

“Like a weapon,” Devon chimes in.

“Alright, alright,” Chris mutters, waving his hands. “Have mercy, please? Change of topic.”

Robbie drops the stick and holds his hands up in surrender, “Don’t shoot!”

Chris lets out a long sigh, looking like he’s on the verge of walking away from them. While Tom thinks that they’re right, Chris definitely did want them to see it, he can understand why he wouldn’t want it to be the topic of conversation around the counsellors.

"Don’t take it the wrong way,” Max says amidst the laughter. It’s clear that he’s sensed Chris’s discomfort too. “You just won the genetic lottery, that’s all.”

He slips an arm around Tom’s shoulder as if he needs him to confirm what he’s said, but Tom feels uncomfortable with the topic and isn’t sure what to add. Before he can think better of it he shrugs, saying, "Perhaps, but he was clearly last in the queue when they were handing out brains and personality."

Suddenly the laughter stops with a mixture of shocked guffaws and a few sharp intakes of breath. He has everyone’s attention, included Chris’s, and the expression on Chris’s face tells him how hugely he's fucked up.

“Ouch, Tom,” Max says, wincing, letting his arm slip from Tom’s shoulder, and before Tom can try to correct himself or make it clear that he was joking, Chris is up and gone.

“Shit,” Tom says, following him, but Chris doesn’t go back towards the cabin like Tom expects, stomping off beyond the trees into the woods.

“Don’t go into the woods!” One of the counsellors calls, but it’s too late - Chris is gone and Tom is going after him.

In the dark, only slivers of moonlight filter through the trees, leaving Tom in almost complete darkness. For guidance he has only the sound of Chris’s heavy footfalls breaking branches and roots up ahead.

“Chris, wait!” he sighs, unsure if he's more annoyed at himself for saying what he did or at Chris for taking it so badly.

The sounds up ahead only get more furious, faster and heavier, and Tom thinks that in order to catch up he might have to run in the dark.

“Chris!” he calls again, perhaps sounding more desperate than he means to, and immediately the sounds up ahead come to a dead stop.

The sudden quiet is eerie, the sounds of the campfire so far behind them now that the revelry barely carries at all through the air. For a moment, Tom is struck with the terrifying thought that it might not even be Chris in front of him - that he might’ve lost Chris and been lured into the depths of the woods by some other creature.

“Chris?” he says again, quieter, and he hears a little breath up ahead of him.

Edging forwards, with one hand out in front of him to feel for trees, he uses his feet at a shuffle to avoid the tree roots and other trip hazards. Just as Chris’s dark silhouette becomes apparent in front of him, Tom’s fingertips brushed the clammy skin of his chest.

Between his earlier clowning by the fire and his determined march into the trees he's built up a sheen of perspiration. Still, Tom doesn't pull away and Chris doesn't move either.

"What do you want?" he asks, quietly and clearly sulking.

Stepping closer flattens Tom's palm against Chris's chest, the skin smooth and hot. It's a struggle not to let it affect his voice as he says, "You know I didn't mean that."

"So why did you say it?"

"I don't know," Tom sighs. "Isn't it what we do? We've always done it. Rivalry is kind of our thing."

"Well maybe I don't _want_ -" Chris growls, leaning heavily on the word before cutting himself off.

Silence hangs between them, Tom frantically searching in the darkness for a read on Chris's expression.

Tom’s voice is thin as a reed, throat wobbling when he whispers, "So what do you want?"

Instead of answering him Chris grunts and turns to go.

Throwing his hands up, Tom lets out an exasperated sigh. "Okay, great, just run away, that's helpful! Where are you going to go? I live with you!"

But Chris is gone.

-

Once Tom breaks through the line of trees he searches the clearing for Chris, scanning the orange faces around the fire and squinting into the darkness by the tree line where some counsellors are hovering with worry. Chris isn't anywhere to be seen.

“Tom!” The guy he was talking to about college comes up beside him, smacking him lightly on the back of the head. “Do you know the kind of shit we’d have been in if you’d been lost in there?”

Gloomily, Tom apologises. His intention then is to head back to the cabin, but Zack catches his eye, clearly concerned, and breaks away from the group as Tom wanders over.

"Did Chris go back to the cabin?"

Zack pulls a face, shrugging. "I dunno, Tom. Why do you care? Come and have fun."

But Tom does care and, as much as the campfire and the company of his Cobalt friends calls to him, he knows that he won't be able to have fun until he sorts things out with Chris.

Zack rolls his eyes but waves him towards the cabins.

-

Theirs is in darkness as Tom approaches, and once he opens the door he's met with such stillness that he's convinced Chris isn't there at all. It's only instinct that has him sticking his head into the dark bedroom, and there he finds Chris sitting on his bed.

Tom wants to speak, to break the silence, but he can't think of anything to say. He doesn't like this feeling between them, feels as though it's been building all week, or maybe even for years. He doesn't know how to fix it. He's sure that Chris won't be placated by anything he has to say, that whatever anger is in him will have to be allowed to fade over time, and so he resolves to just get ready for bed.

He turns to switch the light on, but before his fingertips can even skim the cold plastic of the light switch his hand is snatched out of the air and Chris's substantial form is against him, pressing him back to the wall.

"Chris-" he breathes out, surprised and winded by the force with which he's shoved back, but before he can finish Chris takes his mouth in a bruising kiss.

What little breath Tom had rushes out through his nose, his palms flying up to push at Chris’s ribs. Chris gives him a second to suck in a breath before he presses forwards again, mouth open this time and tongue immediately searching for entrance between Tom’s lips.

Tom lets it happen, head spinning and knees buckling a little. Chris smells like fire and tastes like marshmallow, sweetness tripping off his tongue as it slides against Tom’s. He lifts one large hand to Tom’s throat and grips loosely at it like he’s afraid Tom might try to pull away, possessive as he closes in further, one thigh sliding in between Tom’s.

It’s heated with _want_ but there's anger in there too, pent up over years and years of besting and humiliating each other in the name of a petty rivalry. Chris bites as much as he kisses, holds Tom still with that forceful hand around his throat, pulling back just enough whenever Tom tries to retaliate with teeth.

It's as irritating as it is arousing, the low throb between Tom's legs battling with the dull, frustrated clenching of his stomach, and on impulse he slips his hand between them to cup the hardening bulge between Chris's legs.

The sound that escapes Chris's throat into the kiss makes Tom’s stomach clench. He pushes himself closer still, shoving his crotch against Tom’s hand.

He breaks off the kiss to pant wetly at Tom’s cheek, reaching down one-handed to shove his shorts down, gripping Tom’s hand and urgently guiding it to his bare cock. It’s almost fully hard now, hot and heavy in Tom’s hand but not much different from his own. When he curls his fingers around it Chris whines from his throat and kisses him again.

It’s frantic, desperate, Chris humping against him while Tom tries to keep a good grip and stroke him as best he can.

"Fuck," Chris breathes, pressing his hips so tightly against Tom's thigh, pinning his hand between them until it’s almost impossible for Tom to keep stroking him. "Fuck, Tom. Make me come."

He says it like he's the boss, like he's in charge of the situation, and where Tom expects to feel annoyed he finds that he instead feels thrilled, ready and willing to do what Chris tells him to. He shifts his angle so that he can better touch Chris, can better tend to his needs, stopping only to spit down onto his palm. Chris moans, breathless, as Tom takes him in-hand again.

He jumps when Chris leans down to bite at his shoulder, teeth digging sharp and unexpected, catching on bone instead of muscle.

“What’re you-” he gasps, just as he feels the hot pulse of Chris coming into his hand.

Chris shifts his mouth, letting his teeth scrape down Tom’s throat before sucking hard like he’s trying to leave a mark. He’s still thrusting his hips, cock sliding with messy ease through Tom’s slick fist.

Looking into the darkness of their room over Chris’s shoulder, Tom blinks, settles his eyes on their messy beds, his duffel bag beneath the window. He feels as though he’s in a daze, so aroused and desperate to come but suddenly frightened too, unsure of what they’re doing.

He can barely form the words to express it, but Chris spares him the need, pulling him away from the wall and shoving him down onto the bed. Without grace Chris straddles his knees and yanks his shorts down to mid-thigh, humming when Tom’s cock stands to attention, needy and hard.

Tom jumps when Chris finally touches it, sliding his palm up the underside, slow and exploratory. A desperate sound gurgles up out of Tom’s throat, knees spreading as much as they can where they’re trapped between Chris’s legs.

He feels his face go hot when Chris lets go only to swipe at Tom’s palm, and when he touches Tom’s cock again his hand is slick with his own come. It’s so dirty and intimate that Tom’s instinct is to tip his face to the side, but Chris only nudges his face back with the other hand. He holds him down with his weight and strokes him, more roughly than Tom would usually touch himself, watching his face in the darkness as Tom squirms beneath him. They barely blink, so caught up in each other, and Tom’s chest feels tight like he can’t get enough breath. In less than a minute Chris has brought him to an orgasm, one that hits so hard his legs twitch and he cries out, fingers curling into the blanket beneath him.

Chris strokes him through it, leaning down to press his forehead against Tom’s, exhaling sweet breath against his chin, arm working back and forth in a slow rhythm until Tom can’t take it anymore and pushes the touch away.

That action seems to break the spell, and when Chris pulls back his eyes are wide, shifting around Tom’s face. He climbs off with shaking limbs, slow and awkward like he doesn’t know himself, and without the weight of his body Tom feels cold, too-aware of the cum cooling on his stomach.

In the breathless quiet, Chris slides to sit on the floor between their beds.

Tom watches, awkward and helpless in his post-orgasmic haze, as Chris drops his head into his hands and sucks in several deep breaths.

"Fuck," Chris eventually whispers, his tone a world away from when he'd last muttered the word.

Shadows fall across the windows outside as other campers begin to return to their cabins, laughing and singing broken snippets of camp songs. The comfortable joviality of it is so stark against the awkwardness in the room that Tom reaches to pull his underwear back up around his hips as he slides off the bed. Chris lifts his head and watches Tom head for the door.

"Where are you going?" he says, voice rough and somewhat desperate.

Tom shuffles around, still trying to catch his breath. He doesn't know whether Chris wants him to leave or wants him to stay, but he shrugs his shoulders and wipes one-handed at his abdomen. "To the sink. I need to clean up."

Chris's eyes drop to follow Tom's hand, expression unreadable as he stares at the evidence of what they'd done, and then he nods wordlessly and makes no further attempts to stop Tom's exit.

 

-


End file.
